


nameless.

by caticoo



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, GHNNHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Sad Ending, THATS ALL THAT DESCRIBES THIS, nnnnnn, nobody is directly mentioned BUT theres references, perhaps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-02-02 00:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12716031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caticoo/pseuds/caticoo
Summary: you fall in love, and the drop is only a foot tall.





	nameless.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kirumi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kirumi/gifts).



> hi. my name is cati! i'm back on my bullshit  
> maybe. i've been fawning over me and ciel's ocs. i'm not gonna be back just yet. but i love writing regardless. here's a little thing, if you're interested at all.
> 
> thank you for reading.

There’s a boy that is in your class.

He sits in the very back row, because he is  _ that  _ tall. He’s an absolute mammoth, that he’s taller than the bulky, muscular (but kind) young man in the next class over, who wears his hair in a wild do and fixes his glasses when he’s flustered. He’s taller than the woman that they call the “ogre” (you think this is a little ill-hearted of your fellow students, but it turns out she doesn’t seem to mind the nickname much through deep surfing through students’ profiles and old conversations on posts). He is taller than the man that encourages you to run a little faster, push yourself a little harder, even though you’re positively sure that you’ll  _ die  _ if you follow those orders. Though, the boy in your class isn’t exactly bulky-builded or protruding muscles like the other three -- he is simply tall. He is not lanky, like a pile of long-bedded boards, for his face is built cleaner than a steel slate. He carries himself with what looked to be confidence, but you wouldn’t be sure.

He’s not your friend, per se. He’s a boy you just so happen to glance at once in awhile. He’s a boy that helped you when you accidentally dropped your items, bidded you a good morning once or twice when he passed by your desk (which is nearest to the hallways, smack in the middle of the rows). He’s not social, and all the while gets along with most people. There’s a girl that flaunts her breasts (you assume unashamedly) that seems to have some sort of grudge against him (she’s always making snarky, but childish remarks about him) to a boy that only stares and nods to her complaining (you eavesdrop, sometimes on purpose, sometimes not -- from more research you gather, it seems he and the girl had a thing before, and she was simply peppered in salt about it). You know most everyone’s name -- first and last, because everyone has a unique name, and it would be stupid if you found yourself forgetting. Your own name is lost to the ruins of others, however.

You’re sure that the boy doesn’t know you very well. He does not know you as well as you do him -- you know he doesn’t watch you the way you do. You know he doesn’t care about you the way you do with him. You know that you’re only another student in his class, another person to remember, another person to acknowledge in a pool of other countless teenagers with amazing talents. You make no scenes, you don’t make yourself stand out -- you’re quite useless, really, and this is probably the main reason why he probably doesn’t care about you. It’s likely that he would pay more attention to the eccentric boy that his presumed ex always rants to, who is very headstrong about women and their rights (he calls them goddesses, and you understand -- he didn’t grow up here after all). There’s nothing redeeming about you, and you know it.

All you have are mysteries that do not want to be solved by even the Ultimate Detectives. You are boring in that regard. You have secrets like any other student, and you're sure you're quiet enough for someone to be curious about your quell. But unlike the flaunting, lying clown that's in the same class as the bulky boy with the glasses, or the confusing, insanely lucky young man that's a class above you, there's nobody that is interested in your mystery. At least the two presented had some sort of curveball, some sort of surprise -- some reward for figuring them out or getting close, like a boy that wears a hat does when the clown tugs him around or the young man who could very well be an Ultimate if he were not in the reserve course. You are different. You answer every question directly, and provide no leeway with extra, unnecessary information. One could ask you what your favorite food is, and you would answer that you have none (eating is distasteful). Unlike most people, you don't provide words that would cause the conversation to flow (“But I like crackers and some sweets”) -- you leave it simple and stale, like you're aged bread with little taste. People easily see that you’re quite boring, and you don’t mind this. That’s what you want to be.

Because, in the past, you wanted anything but to be ignored. Anything but to be another faceless man in the crowd, another nameless student in a roster. You wanted to be known, you wanted to be looked at, you wanted to be loved. You had nothing at home other than clouds of smoke to look forward to, so there was only the comfort of education and the people that came with them. When you were younger, you made them laugh, you made them smile, you made them dance and sing along to your wondrous voice, or so they told you it was. You were not afraid to be looked in the eye, you were not afraid to show yourself off. In comparison to all the other children, you were not shy -- your presentation was flawless, as you sung the ABCs in perfect rhythm, and even ended up singing that Jackson 5 song that included those three letters that you used to adore. Everyone loved you.

Loved.

They stopped loving you when you destroyed that girl’s reputation. You dove too deep, you loved attention that would only prove to be useless in the end -- only prove to run out, and to find none more. You went into the web, you got in contact with others, you seeked to shatter the social life of someone who was once the person you trusted the most, and vice versa. You feigned screenshots, spread false rumors, made sure that you, you were the one that had done all of this. And you got your attention. You got the glances, you got the looks, you got the whispers -- but nobody came to your stupid fucking show anymore. They were tired of your singing, your dancing, your stale jokes. They grew up. You didn’t.

You banished yourself. You damned yourself. You hated yourself. (You still do all these things). Your father didn’t care too much, too busy inhaling chemicals to care for your wellbeing. Nobody cared enough to come to the door and escort you out, like you expected -- you thought about running away, but there was nowhere to run. So you stayed, in that weed-smelling home. You stayed and you thought. You stayed and you punished yourself. You found no entertainment with going outside, and when the first day of sixth grade started, your father forgot. You did not, but you wanted to, so you did. You talked it out some with him, while he was high, as he always was -- he agreed for online schooling, and that was the last meaningful conversation you’ve shared in five or so years.

It worsened, considerably. The pantry was low, always, so you could only eat the stale snacks stuffed in the very back in case of an emergency. Everything else disgusted you (even now, you were still unthankful). Your dad didn’t go out often, and you’d refuse to -- you waited every two weeks for a cycle of new items to eat. Your dad noticed that you only ate so much, and he didn’t comment or complain -- he bought crackers meant to feed parrots and pets. You ate them. You didn’t mind it, but the reminder that they were for animals convinced you that your father loved his bong more than he loved you. Everything, everyone seemed to love something more than you. But you grew bored of doing nothing, of eating little, of living among the drab and drear of your room (you tore all of your posters of bands and plays and dance competitions out. You wouldn’t be needing them anymore.) So you decided to decorate it some.

All you did was copy what you saw online. You drew some hearts, some stars, and decided it was far too boring for your taste. So you looked up patterns on the search engine, and you drew those patterns in. The drawings stacked up. Your desire to live lessened. There was little enjoyment in life at such a point -- you were entertained by TV or videos online. You tried writing some, but your words were just as difficult to convey as a joke now (all your jokes were so overused that even you grew tired of it). Otherwise, joy was a foreign, falling thing. A precious thing. A delicate, wonderful feeling, which you felt so rarely in its most genuine form, that you forgot what it was, for a long while. You stayed in your room (locked it, so that your dad wouldn’t start smoking in there), and let yourself sink in your loneliness.

You decided to start posting your patterns online. It was simply something you felt like doing on the whim -- the internet was a vast thing, filled with treasurers and curses and sin. The internet was for humorous videos, chatting with others, and porn. A lot of porn (you tried touching yourself once or twice when you moved onto the seventh grade, but even this held no enjoyment). Surely, your stupid, bad, terrible artwork that you copied online wouldn’t get popular -- if anything, you’d only receive hate comments, telling of how you should abandon the pen. But you did not. And this surprised you. People encouraged you, people told you it was good, people all over the world looked at it and smiled upon your “talent.” Drawing, you thought, had never been in your line of skill, but it seemed as if things might have been different now. Secretly, deep down in your heart, you enjoyed the compliments -- you enjoyed the attention, after steering away for so long. So you continued.

The patterns grew larger. The drawings that accompanied them did as well. More people looked, more people gazed, more people commented until the name of Kono Kagehisa was widespread around the community of your new hobby: zentangling. It only took four or so years, but you found you were naturally skilled with ink and a keen eye -- maybe you liked it, a little. But what was it, in the end? It was useless. What would it do, to find you a job? As you learned, so little people get a shot in the world of artwork. And you were little exception.

But somehow, your skill got you invited to the prestigious Hope’s Peak Academy. Somehow, somehow, you found yourself packing your bags, filled with little, while you father was passed out on the couch. He knew you were leaving, maybe (he signed the papers while he was high, which was most of the time), so you felt no guilt for it. You felt only hesitance for the comfort of your room, knowing that you would not be able to stay sheltered in. But there was a hope in yourself as well -- you had the chance of starting all over again. You could make new friends. You could socialize, like a normal person. (You didn’t do this, because you also know you never deserved this opportunity in the first place.)

You first met the boy when he called out to you while you dozed silently in a tree. The evening was upon, and the sun didn’t bask its rays upon you as harshly as it would during the afternoon -- you hardly went out into the sun, so maybe it would be nice once in a while, now that the smell of bong didn’t linger. He saw you in the tree, called, and you thought not much of it at first -- he was so tall, he could stand up straight and be parallel to your crotch. “Are you okay, little guy?” was the sentence he said to you, and you did nothing but nod in response. His voice was muffled from your drowsiness, but suddenly you felt the tender touch of hands at your arms, and suddenly you were lifted from the comfort of the tree and the cold air. You were confronted with the warmth of a chest, and the boy’s voice was then muffled by the comforting sound of a tattooing heart.

The embrace of a person was unfamiliar to him. A hug from his parents was one he forgot (his mother was long gone, and he silently hoped his father was now admitted to a hospital. He saw the results of his medical examination before he left. Cancer was incurable), and the nobody his age would want to gift him with such an act of affection. So being there, even for a moment, a second or two, in the arms of somebody that knew him no evil, was pure. He felt pure. He felt forgiven.

Maybe it is stupid, really, to be in love with that particular boy. The boy who only knows your talent, and your name. The boy who is a skyscraper, compared to someone small like you. The boy that taught you what an embrace was, after you forced yourself to forget.

It seems more stupid now that he has a girlfriend -- that strict, yet kind-seeming girl from the 12th grade class. It seemed only appropriate -- he was the Ultimate Archer, she was the Ultimate Soldier. They were two peas in a pod, absolutely built for one another’s hearts. And where were you? You, the sadsack? You mixed like oil and water with the Ultimate Artist. You had no friends. You were nameless. Nameless. Nameless. Loveless, too.

You see him and the girl share a kiss one day, during cleaning time. You just manage to peek through the crack of a door, but there they are. She’s sitting on a desk, he’s leaning in, and their fingers are tied into each other’s dark locks. His fingers on your heart. He squeezes. It breaks. You find no room in yourself to cry -- you only look away, and you live again in the knowledge of how utterly unimportant you are.

You couldn’t do it. You know you could never.

You know he’d never love you if you tried.

**Author's Note:**

> if you wanna kno more abt these boys..... hmu @saiharatxt on twitter


End file.
